


rears its head

by flowermasters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, Jealousy, M/M, Mission Fic, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, Sambucky Bingo 2019, Sambucky Bingo Fill, Unsafe Sex, that one wasn't even on my card!!, whoo lordy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 04:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: “Sam,” Bucky says, “I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.”Sambucky bingo fill: "jealousy kink."





	rears its head

**Author's Note:**

> [A link to my Bingo card](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0f52dbc73ba44fe734e9297435fd1d51/tumblr_pyhsm1OmlB1rs54bxo1_1280.jpg)
> 
> For the square: "jealousy kink"
> 
> This one is probably the most explicit thing I've ever written, which isn't saying much given the platform we're on, but hey.

The bartender really is pretty; tall, shiny dark hair, and a low-cut shirt. There was a time, Bucky knows, when he would’ve been on a girl like her—to borrow a phrase from Sam—like white on rice. Still could be, really, if he wanted to, but she seems to have taken more of an interest in Sam, anyway, and the feeling seems largely mutual. 

The bar, a little dive on the outskirts of town, isn’t too crowded; they chose it for this reason, but now Bucky almost wishes they’d gone someplace else. The lack of clientele means that the pretty bartender can hang around, flitting off every so often to re-up a few drunks or close someone’s tab before she circles back around to laugh at Sam’s commentary. Sam is obliging her by, apparently, being extra funny this evening.

She’s leaning on her elbows on her side of the bar now, talking animatedly about something; baseball, Bucky realizes, the conversation sharpening once he realizes he’s been actively tuning it out. They’re talking about the game that just wrapped up on the TV behind the bar.

Sam seems to realize that Bucky’s only just now started paying attention, because he gives Bucky’s elbow a friendly nudge. “My friend’s a Dodgers fan,” he says, giving Bucky a little half-grin that means he’s teasing.

Bucky manages a smile back. “Yeah,” he says. “Least, I used to be.”

The bartender is watching him, clearly expecting an explanation, but Bucky just shrugs. Sam is watching him, too, eyebrows slightly raised. 

The bartender smiles anyway, easy, and asks him, “Another beer?”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Bucky says, rubbing his thumb idly against the sweaty glass in his hand—his flesh hand, as the other is resting inconspicuously in his lap. No matter; she’s already looking at Sam again, asking if he wants another Jack and coke.

“No, thanks, sweetheart,” Sam says, and Bucky’s surprised at the way he tenses up at that word, the way it _ rankles _ a bit, just hearing it. He accidentally meets Sam’s eyes in the mirror behind the bar and forces his expression to relax, astonished by his own quickly-ebbing reaction. If Sam notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it, his gaze quickly flicking back to the bartender. “We’ve got an early start tomorrow. Think we’d better close out.”

“And leave me here with the rabble?” she says, good-naturedly, before she moves to the cash register to print them a receipt.

Sam pays, and absentmindedly pockets the change and the receipt, though not before Bucky glimpses the scrawl of ink at the bottom that looks distinctly like a phone number. He wishes abruptly that he’d paid, not that it really matters, as he and Sam pay for each other interchangeably, a necessity when you live from mission to mission the way they have since the business with Zemo. Well, the second business with Zemo, and hopefully the last.

It had been Sam’s idea that they go out, of course, and Bucky reflects on this as Sam gets them a cab. Stews on it, really, even as he feels progressively more ridiculous about the whole thing. He gets into the back of the car after Sam still thinking of the way Sam had smiled, the bright white flash of teeth when he said, _ look, we’re not going anywhere until Sharon calls; we might as well kill some time, maybe have some fun while we’re at it. _ Of course Sam’s idea of fun is talking to pretty women. Bucky can’t really fault him for that.

“You alright?” Sam asks, once they’ve shut the doors.

“’Course,” Bucky says, glancing at him, meeting his eyes briefly before the car’s dome light automatically dims, blanketing them in darkness.

The cab ride’s a short one, quiet, too, save for the driver’s choice of music, some slow, twangy country song that grates strangely on Bucky’s nerves. Then it’s the motel parking lot, both of them still quiet as they cross the blacktop, walking quickly for reasons Bucky’s not sure he’s aware of. Sam only had two drinks; his steps are quick and certain as he leads the way.

Once in the room, Bucky’s not sure what to do with himself. He thinks of taking another shower just to kill some time and get some space. He’s too keyed up to go to bed, although at nearly midnight, these are the latest hours they’ve kept in a while. Barring extenuating circumstances, they usually wake up early and hit the sack early, unless one of them’s having trouble sleeping, and then—well, they have ways of dealing with that. Bucky doesn’t allow himself to wonder if Sam will indulge him in them tonight. 

Bucky moves to his side of the room, the far side from the door, and starts digging into his bag for some sweatpants. Sam is quiet behind him for a few seconds.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, too casually, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, throwing him a glance as Sam moves further into the room to stand at the head of the narrow aisle between the double beds. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You don’t like crowds, sometimes,” Sam says, with the calm air that would typically put Bucky at ease but now just irks him, like he’s being patronized, though he knows he’s not. “If that was too much for you, or if you just weren’t feeling it, I want you to know you could’ve said something. Wouldn’t have hurt my feelings.”

“Thanks, but I’m really fine,” Bucky says, aware that his tone borders on snappish and really hating that he can’t stop himself. “It seemed like you were having a good time.”

He means to change the subject, to put them back on track, so they can shoot the shit for a while and go to bed like normal. He should ask if Sam’s going to call the bartender if Sharon doesn’t call them away first. As Sam’s friend, maybe he should encourage him to.

Sam just raises his eyebrows. “Huh.”

“Sam,” Bucky says, renewing his efforts to find his sweatpants, which of course must be buried at the bottom of the bag, “I’m not in the mood to be psychoanalyzed.”

“What you are,” Sam says, “is jealous.”

Bucky deliberately does not go tense; if Sam notices the slight hitch in his movements, there’s no way to know. He finally closes his hand on those goddamn pants and drags them up out of the tangle of clothing they’re in. “You think so?” Bucky says. “She was cute, sure.”

“Not of me,” Sam says, in a steady voice that strongly implies that he knows Bucky is being obtuse on purpose. He takes a step forward, casually, and then another. The second one, which puts him barely two feet away, is less casual.

Sam’s right; he usually is, at least about things like why people act certain ways, and he’s pretty good at getting them to admit to it. Bucky hasn’t been thinking of the feeling as jealousy, but that’s what it is. Not childish jealousy, not like a schoolyard crush, and not what he felt, say, when Agent Carter’d snubbed him for Steve all those years ago—this is something like an ache, low in his gut, which he’s only been able to express with irritation and confusion because pinpointing the feeling means acknowledging that it’s there.

Bucky looks at Sam, expecting a smirk, plain as day in the yellow-y motel room light; it’s there, because it’s Sam, the smug fuck, but mostly he finds the raised eyebrows and set jaw of challenge. 

Daring Bucky to—what? Tell him he’s wrong? That would be too easy.

“Okay, so what if I am?” Bucky says. “What d’you suggest I do about it?”

Sam shrugs, but his expression holds, unflappable. “Show me how bad, I guess.”

No point in beating around the bush, then; Bucky tosses the clothes on the bed, turns, takes the single step needed to bring him face-to-face with Sam, and kisses him. Cautiously, at first, because they don’t usually do this—kiss first, that is. It always just sort of happens, with them. Then Sam opens his mouth, not to speak but to let Bucky in, and he might as well have said _ permission granted, soldier_.

He smells good, still fresh from the shower he took before they left for the bar; he smells faintly of vanilla-scented body wash and hints of rich, leathery cologne, sweet and masculine all at once, much like the taste of whiskey and coke on his tongue. Sam hums when Bucky scores his teeth across his bottom lip, then open-mouthed gasps when Bucky takes a firm hold of his ass and hauls him closer.

“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” Bucky says, mumbling this against Sam’s jaw, largely because—for all his talk—he’s a little scared of making eye contact and seeing that, no, Sam didn’t like that. “If I can’t fool you, you can’t fool me, either.”

Sam laughs, the husky laugh that Bucky has only heard once or twice and still craves like a drug. “That’s not how that works.”

“Sure it is,” Bucky says, licking at Sam’s neck. “Let me make love to you. Properly.”

Sam laughs again. “_Make love__,_” he says, letting a hand run up Bucky’s back to rest on the nape of his neck. “You want to fuck me.”

Bucky bites him, not hard, but not gently, either. Sam’s breath hitches, something whiny getting caught in his chest. Bucky grins. “Same difference, baby.”

All he has to do is suck on the bite mark and squeeze Sam’s ass a bit before Sam says, “In my go-bag, the left front pocket.”

Bucky’s pretty goddamn good at following orders after all this time, so he lets go of Sam and sidesteps him in order to get to the bag, which Sam left on the floor by the door. He is mildly self-conscious about how stiffly he’s walking, but he doesn’t think Sam will be too offended by how hard his dick is right now.

He’s fairly certain he knows what Sam is after, but it’s not until he unzips the pocket and his fingers close around a small bottle that he really believes it. They’ve never done this before—never done anything that required any forethought, actually. Sometime soon Bucky will overanalyze this subtle shift in protocol, but for now he pushes the thought away.

When he turns, Sam has moved Bucky’s bag to the floor and is sitting on the edge of the bed, in the process of taking off his polo, the burgundy one with the sleeves that fit tight on his biceps. 

“You had plans for this?” Bucky says, holding up the bottle, which still has the plastic seal around the cap.

“What can I say, I was a Boy Scout,” Sam says dryly as he kicks off his shoes.

“Oh,” Bucky says. “I wasn’t.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but mercifully declines to comment on this as Bucky moves toward the bed. Bucky tosses the lube onto the bedspread, then goes still when Sam pulls him closer by the belt loops until Bucky’s standing in front of him.

“Gonna suck me, huh,” Bucky says, touching the side of Sam’s face before he can think better of it.

“Goddamn, you are a master of observation,” Sam says, but he’s already unbuttoning Bucky’s jeans, licking absentmindedly at his lower lip, already swollen from being kissed.

Bucky lets Sam suck him for a while, falls into almost a trance as he stands there, hand resting lightly, possessively, on the back of Sam’s head. Sam’s phone chirps loudly at some point, and Bucky thinks distantly that they’re expecting a call, but the thought fizzles into nothing, forgettable. 

He can’t hold Sam’s gaze for too long, because that’s the surest way to get him off quickly, Sam looking up at him with heavy, almost sleepy brown eyes. He takes Sam gently by the back of the neck and pulls him off, doesn’t miss the soft noise Sam makes when he does that, low and plaintive.

“Lie down,” Bucky says. “Take your pants off.”

Sam grumbles something about taking orders, but he’s too busy unbuttoning his pants, shimmying out of them and his shorts, to really be heard. Bucky proceeds to strip out of his clothing as fast as humanly possible, but by the time he’s done Sam is already turning over onto his stomach at the center of the bed.

When he sees Bucky looking at him, he shifts up onto his elbows and knees. “I’m waiting,” he says, imperious, and Bucky growls under his breath, caught between irritation and lust that, really, make up two sides of the same coin when it comes to Sam.

Sam waits until Bucky is kneeling behind him on the bed and has torn off the plastic on the lube to say, “Nothing too crazy. It’s—been a while.”

“Good,” Bucky says, slicking his fingers. “I want you to feel it after.”

Sam huffs under his breath, but doesn’t say anything when Bucky puts first one finger in him, then two; he’s quiet until Bucky suddenly crooks his fingers, and then he tenses up and groans, low and hoarse. “Yeah,” Bucky says, almost soothingly, “that’s it.”

He kisses Sam’s back, catches himself mumbling mindless shit—_going to fuck you good, I promise, Sam, want you to come on my dick, Sam, baby— _talking so much he almost drowns out Sam’s little grunts and gasps. 

“All I’m hearing,” Sam says, lifting his head and looking over his shoulder at Bucky, “is talk. Put up or shut up, Barnes.”

Bucky smacks the meat of Sam’s upper thigh, just once, as dismissively as a cowboy might slap a pony’s flank in a western. Sam hisses, watches avidly as Bucky takes out his fingers and replaces them with his dick in one smooth, slow push. For all his talk about wanting Sam to feel it, he doesn’t want to hurt Sam, not at all—the very idea of it almost curdles something within him. But Sam doesn’t seem to be in pain; he breathes in long and slow through his nose, then exhales, _ fuck_, when Bucky is fully seated.

“S’that good?” Bucky says, giving Sam a little push, ignoring the lightning bolt of pleasure the movement sends up his spine. “Huh?”

“Just fucking do it,” Sam says, but there’s no real heat to his voice, unless you count the burn of desperation. Bucky, obliging as ever for Sam, puts a firm hand on the back of Sam’s neck, then snaps his hips so that Sam lets out a guttural noise, something bone-deep.

He fucks Sam in earnest, forcing more of those noises out of him, growling himself, down low in his chest. Modulating his strength is second nature, but the harder he thrusts, the more noise Sam makes. He’s close, fast, wishes that he hadn’t let Sam blow him for so long, but this isn’t over yet. 

Sam must be aware of this, because he grits out, “What do you want to hear, Barnes? Want me to say I’m yours, will that get you off?”

_ Yes_, Bucky thinks wildly, but that question seemed rhetorical. “Can I come in you?” he asks, halfway out of his mind with it but still deeming it prudent to ask. He can’t bear the thought of spoiling this somehow. “Huh? You want it?”

“Shit,” Sam pants, “uh-huh, you can—”

Bucky grunts, coming before Sam’s even gotten the words all the way out, leaning over Sam’s slick back and holding still through it, buried deep. Sam is panting, muscles tense, nearly quivering. Bucky doesn’t go soft; he doesn’t, sometimes, after the first, some quirk of the serum that he supposes he can’t complain about. He usually only lets Sam jerk him off or blow him for one, although sometimes he gets greedy.

He thrusts into Sam once, then twice, almost painfully oversensitive and nearly feral for it. “Feel how slick you are?” he asks. “What do you say, Wilson, can you take some more?”

Sam just moans in response, so Bucky takes him by the scruff of the neck again, this time gently tugging his head up. “Hanging in there?” he asks, voice rough. “C’mon, talk to me, baby, you asked for this.”

“Make me come,” Sam says, and what Bucky can see of his face in profile is a wreck, “Bucky—”

Bucky doesn’t need telling twice; with his free hand, the real one, he reaches under them, skims over Sam’s trembling belly and takes his dick firmly in hand. That, and holding steady on the angle that makes Sam gasp, has Sam moaning and spilling over his fingers in no time.

Bucky fucks him through it, keeps fucking him until Sam goes lax and pliant, and then pulls out. The startled moan Sam gives, combined with the smear of fluid already sticky between his thighs, does more to get Bucky off than his own hand working himself. He comes over Sam’s ass and upper thighs, grunting once and then sighing softly, relieved, like a poison has been drawn out of him.

Sam stays up on his knees, his breathing gradually slowing. Bucky, feeling dazed and sluggish, needs a moment to remember the protocol here; if it’s been a long time for Sam, it’s been even longer—try twice Sam’s lifetime if you’re counting time spent on ice—for Bucky. He clambers to the side of the bed and gets up, locates his sweatpants in the mess on the floor, then goes to the bathroom to run hot water over a hand towel.

He cleans Sam off first, gentle, humming quietly when Sam’s breath hitches at the touch. That ache in his abdomen has been replaced by something tender, so fragile he has the wildest urge to clutch his chest to protect it. There's normally no need for this kind of care between them; it doesn't feel as foreign as it should.

Wiped down, and probably wiped out, Sam lies gingerly on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms, not seeming to care that he’s bare-assed before God and Bucky. Bucky gives himself a cursory wipe down, then tosses the towel aside and flops down onto his side next to Sam, the better to study his face, the closed eyes and relaxed expression there.

“You alright?” he asks, voice a little creaky, when Sam doesn’t say anything.

“Who, me?” Sam says, eyelids fluttering. “I’m peachy. Trying to work up to a shower.”

Bucky wants Sam to be filthy for a little while longer; he’s somewhat consciously aware that this is why he reaches out and rests a hand lightly on the small of Sam’s back. “Sorry,” he says, “if that was—a lot.” Too much, maybe.

Sam huffs. “You think that’s the worst I’ve had?” he says, and then he cracks his eyes open. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does that get you all hot under the collar? Or hot and bothered, I should say?”

Bucky pulls a face. “That’s not—I wasn’t, you know, because of that.”

“That’s weird, you don’t sound like a man who came twice,” Sam says, and Bucky laughs.

Sam’s phone dings again; that means a text message, Bucky notes, and it could be important. “You might want to check that,” he says, even as he settles down, comfortable.

“S’probably just Allison,” Sam says, eyes closed again, and when Bucky doesn’t react, he adds, “From the bar. That was her name. I’m kidding, Jesus.”

Bucky laughs at that, gives Sam a little nudge, which makes Sam laugh. He still feels a little ridiculous, only he doesn’t mind so much anymore.


End file.
